


Kept at Arm's Length

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: A Tale of Two Soldiers [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Blindfolds, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Dom Steve Rogers, F/M, Fingering, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Post-Black Panther (2018), Sex Toys, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: When a certifiable technological genius builds a new prosthetic arm for Bucky, he really needs to learn its capabilities. All its capabilities, not just the ones on the battlefield. He hasn't explored all the possibilities that vibranium gives him, especially the intimate kind.Fortunately he has someone more than willing to lend a hand or two. Or three...  And oh, he's going to be a wrecked mess when he discovers what his arm can do.





	Kept at Arm's Length

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Tumblr prompt, "Bucky Barnes' new arm needs some smut." Do enjoy. And Natasha is a redhead still.
> 
> As always, I love your comments. <3

“Touch yourself.”

Two words filled the cloying darkness under the domed ceiling in the Wakandan hut. With the simple commandment, she rendered the private act free of shame and scoured any taint of unholiness.

Bucky tilted his head back to the soft woven blanket hung on the walls as minimal soundproofing. He raised his hand out in front of him so the dying embers of equatorial dusk caught the gilded inclusions spun around the plates.

 _Scars filled by one of the most precious metals on Earth._ He would never have bothered trying to transform the mark of his forced labour into something beautiful. Neither was he a 16-year-old African princess, inheritor to the world’s most technologically advanced society either.

His fingers curled to the palm in a fist. Onyx scales gleamed, treated for a finish as beautiful as any carbon fibre sports cars. He turned his wrist this way and that to watch how the prosthetic drank up the light into itself.

“That’s not what I meant. Touch your skin.” Natasha shook her head, gesturing sharply with her fingertips in a sweep taking in the whole of his seated frame.

The broad platform bed eclipsed half the open floorspace, more than adequate enough for Bucky to lay back and stretch out comfortably in sleep. Not that he felt the least bit tired, keyed up by any number of factors. One didn’t host a girl in a black catsuit in his private quarters every day, least of all one unzipping her coat halfway from the heat.

Not that the private hut lacked for air cooling systems, but she complained of overheating and left him to gauge the voluptuous swell of her breasts from across the way. So here they were, her imperious tone hinting at a wisp of impatience. For Nat, that meant _entirely_ impatient.

He stroked his unshaven jaw, fingers sliding over a few days’ growth and petting the stubble flat. “That satisfy you?”

“Sergeant Barnes, I should have you cuffed for insubordination.” The tone in her voice carried authority, a weight absent from her long-ago apprenticeship in Soviet Russia. Then, he was much changed from the assassin training her under the pressure cooker environment.

“And who gives you the right to do that?” Sparring with her verbally was never smart, but he’d found a peace and confidence out of the cracked shell of his life.

The redhead sat up the straighter and pursed her full lips at him smartly. “You don’t think I can?”

“I don’t think you _will_.”

He was going to learn, sooner or later, not to taunt Ms. Romanov. She intended to bide her time and get her revenge, he supposed, when his back was turned. The slow, lazy curl of her lips promised damnation in a black dress, a whisper of the widow’s bite when he wouldn’t ever expect.

“Don’t press a lady.” Natasha smiled still, face upturned to him. He could see her shift, rolling onto her hip and curling her legs against her side like the _Little Mermaid_ statue preening in the cool Copenhagen harbour. “She might just surprise you.”  
  
He knew better, especially with her. He’d watched the little girl grow up to a confident woman, a man killer if there ever was one. She wielded sly humour and charm as her dagger, surprise as her cloak.

None of this particularly stopped him from cheerfully announcing, “Try me.”

They stared at one another for several moments. Neither forfeited contests of will easily, not without just cause or an upper hand somewhere. She curled her fingers around her ankle and shucked off her heeled boot, leaving a glimpse of bare toes and the supple arch of her foot.

The thud announced the fall of the footwear onto the floor. This was new. _Strip poker? Show you mine, you show me yours?_

Not that he’d ever say no to her choosing to peel off her outer layers, any more than he would hurl a towel and a t-shirt at Steve under the same circumstances. Or any circumstances.

Dull echoes rebounded from her other boot joining its mate in a tangled pile. “Have you tested it out much?”

“A bit. Shuri needed to fine tune a few things. She replaced the wiring system in my shoulder.” His voice and gaze faded into poignant memory, sliding out of the present to the cusp of recent memory.

A bit. Weeks of training under the imperious gazes of the Dora Milaje, those tawny warriors with their spears ringing him on the red clay courts while he spun and blocked blows of their trainees. Days of demolishing practice dummies, every time better reinforced and heavier weight. All the way, Shuri looked on, taking notes or, more likely, stifling laughter as he stumbled and lurched from place to place like a newborn giraffe. Learning to fight with something lighter and more responsive than Soviet-era tech was a matter of grim advancement for him.

Natasha watched him with all the lazy candor of a lioness on the savannah. “And you were lazing about here the rest of the time, rediscovering yourself?”

He smirked at her. “Why, no. I was earning my keep, ripping pipes and yanking cables out. I even caught on she had me rewiring her lab after about a week.”

“Mm, always the fast one, aren’t you?” she asked.

That smart mouth was going to get her in trouble fast. In fact, he decided he’d be the one to assure her of it.

He dropped his hand into his lap, too fast and quick. The exquisite balance in the prosthetic arm still demanded practice to manage. After three-quarters of a century under bulky Soviet technology refined a bit by Tony Stark, he knew the characteristics and eccentricities of his original metal arm as well as anyone could. His new arm was a Tesla to a Model T. Or maybe a rocket to a paper airplane.

His knee smarted. The back of his knuckles rebounded off his thigh and vibrations raced from his hip bone and down his femur, a throbbing rattle that shook through his leather boot. Something new to learn about.

“What was that?” Natasha glanced about for the source of the low rumble. Tension coiled in her viper-quick, ready to lash out at the closest threat.

“Me,” he said.

The black tac-jacket creaked when she settled back. A thrill moved under the surface of Bucky’s thoughts watching her chest rise and fall, defined only by the dull gleam in the advancing nightfall. Violet shades painted the African sky, a vista that never lost its wonder for someone used to the pitch darkness of subarctic latitudes.  

“Touch yourself.” This time, she repeated herself in a low, velvety growl thickened by insistence.

Dark hair fell across his face, a curtain swept free from the elastic tying most of it back. Strands covered his eye, occulting his expression from hers. “Didn’t I just do that?”

“Open your pants, James, and stroke your cock with your left hand.”

When it came to direct instructions, she demonstrated an aptitude for accuracy and efficiency otherwise reserved for active missions. Push her any farther, he figured she might wrap her thighs around his head and toss him to the floor. Worse ways to go, all things considered.

A smile softened the blow of shaking his head. Soft-spoken protest alighted between them. “No.”

“Have you yet?”  
  
History as student and teacher, lovers, allies, and enemies bound assassins together. Bucky almost shut his eyes, a thin crescent of frosty rime under his dark lashes. Had he wrapped his new vibranium fingers around the midpoint of his shaft and roughly jerked up and down, imagining her red lips or Steve’s large hand pleasuring him him?    

“No. No real privacy to do it,” he added the last as a sop to her.

“There is now,” Natasha said.

Asking how she knew was fruitless. He merely shared that bitter ghost of a smile.

Her fingers closed around his forearm, pulling his wrist up to her chin. With her head bowed, she resembled a penitent sinking to her knees in prayer. Warm lips laced the serrated ridge of his knuckles, shocks of heated satin jolted through his system.

“This.” A word paved the slick trail of a kiss, the passage of her breath cooling immediately. “Is beautiful.” Another lavished blessing struck his palm, the arrogant arch of her Slavic cheekbone pressed to the ridged contour.

Gooseflesh dappled his flesh arm, and stirred the vague spilling of interest between his legs. He shifted on the seat, languishing in the sensations pummeling his mind from every direction.

“Wrap your hand around the base of your cock. I want to see you hard. Stroke yourself.” Her soft auburn hair slid in a veil against his forearm, breaking around the wide knob of his wrist bone, and the condensing breaths she exhaled formed the slightest coating fogging the midnight lustre.

Might ask him to belt out the Emancipation Proclamation or _Star Spangled Man_ without the benefit of the USO chorus. Friendly fire always decimated forces in any conflict, and their wills at loggerheads counted very much as a conflict.

Hesitation earned him a stippled curl of dots pressed in the crook between thumb and index fingers. Somehow her tongue wrapped around to his knuckle, sliding into a thin gilded groove. Molten pleasure drizzled down his shoulders, droplets traveling inevitably downwards. He shifted, a minute gesture she was certain to mark with a hunter’s grace.

“I can feel your mouth,” he said. A knell tolled in his skull as the words fell away into the shadows. The wet tattoo of her tongue smashed through his misty thoughts, an ice pick through a glass wall.

She halted, her gaze shifting up to mark his face in the dimming gloom of the guest hut. The shudders racing through his spine rolled away from the revelation dropped into the shallow clarity of his thoughts, traveling in wide, shivering rings to his extremities.

Wetness slid across the crook of his thumb and into the converging lifelines, following one groove across a cobweb of warmer gold. His vibranium thumb quivered of its own accord, the joints stirring to the tingle on a direct line straight to his nervous center.

Keep that up, she was going to have him hard in no time at all.

His rough whisper shaved any semblance of self-control. “Your tongue.”

She dipped her head to plant a kiss at the base of his wrist. “The arm is conveying sensory impressions.”

Not a question. Bucky struggled not to snatch his hand away from her, staring in further wonder at the artistic masterpiece from the hypertech forges of a hidden nation. “No one described this to me.”

“Wonder what hidden capabilities it has.”

Natasha kneeled on the floor, reclining like a hierodule before the statue of an eastern goddess. Her feet slid apart, pressed flat to the ground on either side of the platform bed.

The view of her spread dark legs and the tight shirt sent a shock ricocheting up his backbone. How long _had_ it been since the last climax, the previous interlude in her bed -- or anyone’s? Arousal kicked him in the gut, responding to the Black Widow’s witchcraft. A curl of her finger and he’d be spread out for her to take her pleasure from.

His stomach clenched against the smoldering heat ablaze deeper and lower. If not for the navy pants very decidedly pinning down his shaft, a prominent tent would be visibly signalling his intentions -- and deliver her a point. His pride wasn’t prepared to surrender that much.

With effort he banished the memories in the bright equatorial sunshine, the dusty red earth and laughing, stamping children inviting him to play soccer -- _football, Mr. Bucky!_ \-- with them.

He swung his metal arm across his chest, pulling on his elbow to stretch out the ligaments and fretwork of fine mesh and wires suspended into his muscles. “Lighter, faster. More responsive. I still pack the same punch I always did, but I’m carrying a tablet instead of a mainframe, you know?”

She laughed, dark chocolate to his ears. “Look at you, talking all millennial at me. Who is this man and what did he do with Bucky Barnes?”

“Sorry, doll, classified information.”

Releasing his arm eased the stretch out and he felt the lump of a pillow behind him. Managing to seize and hurl it at her without being caught out would take all his training; Nat’s reflexes were very nearly as good as his. Maybe better in some ways.

Seized, he flung the pillow playfully at her head.

He had shocking force built up behind muscles reacting at the speed of thought. Instinct brought her arm up to deflect the pillow harmlessly, striking it aside. In the next moment, her body rippled in a sinuous bridge, her knees pressed back to her stomach for necessary momentum. She kipped up from her supine recline to a deep crouch in front of the bed, already in motion to pin his chest down.

The gilded web work adorning the dusky prosthetic came alive with contact, her palm slamming harmlessly into a pressure point below his shoulder. Energy hummed through the lamellar plates and rippled along the contact points wound beneath scars.

 _That_ effect Bucky knew well. Dora spear butts and friendly bouts of boxing and martial arts made the diffusing energy halo an old friend. But never in conjunction with her thigh sliding between his, the straining length of his cock fit to rip a hole through his pants and her unfortunately durable catsuit.

He moaned.

Natasha’s hair mingled with his, blotting out her face as he arrested their descent by grabbing the side of the bed.

“Touch yourself,” she repeated, her lips at his ear. Another request if he refused to comply flirted with the apocalypse.

Who was he to deny her? He reached between them, thumbing a series of grooves along his middle finger. Delicate ultraviolet light melted into hidden sigils; a moment later, he tracked the back of his hand along her flexing stomach, down to the crux of their thighs.

Her startled cry when her pendulous breasts spilled out from their corseted confinement with a decided bobbling pop made teasing her well worth it.

The tab of her zipper clung to his metal hand until torn off, and her jacket went askew while he delved his fingers between them. Magnetic fields attracted the seam of her pants, too, and the metallic rivets on the holster wrapped around her upper thigh. Natasha ground her mons against the ragged curves of his knuckles.

“You trying to get away, sweetheart, or get off?” he asked.

Her teeth snapped against his earlobe in muted response, though he noted how roughly she pushed her slit right over the line of peaks. Spreading his hand out denied her that pleasure after a moment, and he casually dragged her by the gusset of her pants right down onto his cock.

His palm acted as the unwanted, interposing barrier, but she could not manage to pull herself away.

“What the hell?” Her furtive whispers became a point of rising frustration, even as she hastily peeled off her coat. The tab and the zipper refused to part from his forearm, another barrier for her riding him right then and there.

He threw his head back and laughed, the rusty chuckle an unexpected addition. “How long since anyone got the upper hand on you, Nat?” Literally, which made him laugh harder.

She silenced him by leaning forward, pressing her breast against his face. Very little adjustment pushed the proud crown between his lips, smothering the amusement on the sweet fullness. He continued a few seconds, succoring her stung pride by lapping at the tight point of her nipple.

Weight settled upon his hand and she resumed her roughshod ride. The gentle suckling of her nipple must have mollified the redhead, though he soon enough released the awful truth of his predicament.

She was jacking him off through his pants, using his own hand, and no doubt deeply enjoying the side effects. A deeper breath over the dusty rose and amber musk of her faint perfume gave him the telltale scent of her honeyed arousal.

“You’re getting wet.” Whether she heard him clearly around the mouthful of her breast was rather unnecessary, since she pressed closer and he obligingly took the offering deeper.

With her zipper still stuck to him, he moved his hand lower and dragged her pants open, exposing the slim crescent of bare folds and the snug pearl to his cool touch.

The moan betrayed her, floating over them in a profane hymn. _Yes, essential to have her make that sound again_. Preferably so loudly Steve left off his inspection of the defenses or meeting with tribal elders to run home and take care of something.

Two somethings, wrapped around one another, both badly in need of Captain America’s cock.

Natasha lifted herself up from the bed as best she could, gaining an inch with his consenting lift supporting her. He couldn’t exactly flip his hand without tearing out the crotch of her pants entirely. Nor had he any reason to given her futile attempt to run her wet labia over the inviting, faint channels angling over his hand.

Her slick heat pooled along the corrugations, smeared out on the onyx finish, lubricating her efforts. With his face pillowed against the heavy full-moon orb, he couldn’t see how she slid over his knuckles but he could _feel_ and that was the most shocking miracle of all.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered.

Her head tilted down, eyes belladonna dark and plump lips bitten between her teeth in a mask of fixated desire.

“What’s it seem like I’m doing?” Oh, the jangling irritation in her tone told him exactly how helpless she was to finish herself.

He pulled her nipple away from her areola, sucking the raspberry point out far as it would go, and dragging his teeth along the taut nub. She bucked hard enough something tore on her pants.

“Don’t like the magnets?”

“That’s what you’re doing?” A fresh wave of sticky girl juice flooded around his knuckles, dripping in fat splatters onto his pants.

He breathed out. “That’s my girl.”

Never forget what the other hand does, an old maxim of a Soviet trainer, proved itself apt. She somehow managed to reach under them and ripped open his pants, fighting against the awkward position haul on the seams until they split.

Immediately his cock sprang up and slapped against his spread palm and wrist. He groaned for the imprisonment ended, and doubly for the silky caress instinctively closing his fingers around the bell-shaped tip.

Natasha ground against his knuckles as he circled his hand around his crown, smearing the traces of precum around for a smoother fit.

And he felt the distinct change from the spongier, sleek glans to the heavy, iron-hard shaft. Fingertips slid around the great veins engorged to maximum hardness, tracing their serpentine ripples pulsing in time with his racing heart.

He never connected the streamlined curve of his hardness with his vibranium-laced palm, the phantom echoes from the limb lost years ago to the intermittent caress.

“Nat,” he moaned into her breast, and she tilted his head up with her fingers pressed gently under his chin. A reminder of who ruled who, in that instant, the knight to her queen.

“Tell me how it feels.” No room for error there, no way to wriggle out from the command burning in her flaming green eyes as she hauled on his collar. He sits up a little straighter, her legs wrapped around his waist. One wove under his arm, still magnetically bound to her ruined catsuit at the crotch, and the other had to surrender any chance of holding her lower back to prop himself up.

He licked his lips as she pulled back, the better to watch his expression go from focused and intent to vaguely rapturous. “Real.”

Obviously insufficient for her needs, a one-word response flattened his palm and cock under her grinding weight. “Wet. You’re getting wet all over my knuckles and it’s dripping through my fingers.” Again he swallowed around the monumental lump in his throat, to say nothing about the rising heat and pressure of his gripped shaft. He adjusted to move a little faster with his strokes, but with her all but stuck to the back of his hand, speed was difficult.

He fumbled for the trigger disengaging the magnetic field. The second try was successful and she lurched forward unexpectedly, shoving him back. His legs spread wide, anchoring against the foot of the bed for some leverage.

Hot lips branded the underside of his chin, kisses replacing the tender impression left by calloused fingertips. Blunt teeth scraped along his jawline, the prickle of his bristles roughing up her shell smooth skin.

“More.” By now she traced up to the corner of his jaw, zeroing in on the sweet spot where suckling for any length of time brought him to a frustrated peak, thrusting his hips and seeking sweet relief from the heated boil in his blood. Fucked. He so needed to be fucked.

His metal hand warmed between them, though the huge energy drain would never leave him hot. His fingers curled around the erect length, rising and falling as fast as smooth metal allowed. “It feels so good. The grooves are ribbed. A little like when I thrust into your pussy.”

A rewarding kiss settled upon his pulse point under his jaw. She flicked her tongue in semi-circles while he raised his buttocks off the woven blanket, jostling her as he fed his cock through his fist. When the bellend popped past his constricting fingers milking the glans, he nearly slapped into her bared slit. She was positioning herself to rub her chest against his and drool a steady font of hot slickness over him, encouraged by nothing more than the friction of their skin.

“Nat, you’re so…” His words trailed off when a frisson of energy chased down his arm and danced over his fingertips, straight into his cock. He rocked hard against his palm, bucking up at the white noise crackling through his nervous system.

A querying protest slipping out of his tightened throat ended up nowhere. She smothered him with a kiss, hot mouth sucking and nipping at his parted lips until their tongues twined around one another. While he melted into oblivious need, she pulled off her scarf and twisted it around his eyes in a smooth motion, taking advantage of Bucky’s shock to blind him.

“Only fair, baby.” The knot settled against the back of his head, firm and secure. He breathed in her fragrance, heavy on soft amber attar and leather. Like Steve and Natasha, together at once.

A bead welled out of his tip, pushed out by the need, the blazing necessity of having her right then. Of course, a hopeless request as she pushed him back flat by nudging his supportive arm with her own.

He obliged by embracing her, feeling that warm, heavy weight settle atop him. Natasha poured herself out atop him, filling in the contours and hollows of his body with her lithe curves. A bit of wriggling tore her pants further, the gaping incision left between her legs improved upon greatly by angling just above his fist gliding up and down.

“They have lube here?” He grunted in response, nudging his head to the side of the bed.

Hearing no opposition otherwise, he continued to explore himself, the weight of his cock against his fist and the warmth sliding through. Yes, the tech buried in the arm somehow conveyed tactile impressions to his nervous system. He had no idea how. It wasn’t as though vibranium regenerated nerves. Nor did he really care as he jacked himself off. Six months of repressed need tumbled down, and he was getting close fast for the novelty of really feeling himself.

The black night over him only sensitized the other acutely sharpened impressions -- the tactile sense of his throbbing cock, the cooling wetness drizzled between his fingers. He turned blindly to the sound of the drawer shutting and a low, melodious chuckle meant for his girl and her private thoughts alone.

“I’m not gonna last,” he warned her in a whisper fraught by the singular need. His orgasm waited. He wanted it. Needed it. Would fucking sell his soul for her to mount him and grant the absolution of her hot little cunt filled by his cum until it dripped out around them.

A squeeze around his balls pressed them into a wet, warm hand. Two sharp pulses flickered between pain and pleasure, diverting him from the upward trajectory into certain release for something confounded. Russian handlers and scientists used such unbearable confusion of his senses to put him down or direct him. Responses that failed to meet with approval brought a litany of negative reinforcements: shocks, slaps, piercing agony introduced a dozen different ways.  

He felt her shift off him, rolling to the side. Automatically he arched his back, fighting off the piano wire tension pulled taut.

“Not yet.” Her fingers tweaked his nipple through his shirt, taking aim on the plump nub the way his teeth had worried hers.

Another spurt of wetness coated his hand, dribbling down the side of his shaft. He bit back his desire to keen at her, a sound so whispery and sibilant, he scarcely recognized it as himself.

The burning heat on his chest subsided into a comfortable simmer, encouraged by her tongue rasping over the cotton until thoroughly damp and clinging. Only then she subsided from teasing to bite down on his nipple.

He jerked again, this time jackhammering his cock. She drew the point into her mouth while her teeth entrapped the nub, her loud sucking filling his mind with profane images of tipping her upside down, tied open, pushing his fingers into her holes, churning her up until she screamed around her gag and came in a messy gush onto his lips, his hands, her quivering titflesh.

A hum of motion locked his fingers in a cupped ring and his shoulder glowed in molten warmth again, freezing him to the spot. Panic burst out of the welling crest of pleasure, the unfamiliar state immediately assessed. His elbow locked into place. He couldn’t spread his fingers. The miracle tech was malfunctioning.  
  
“Nat, I--”

She pinched his other nipple and tugged hard so it matched her captive. His eyes rolled under the blindfold, but shaking his head failed to knock it off. As he raised his flesh hand to take care of the matter, she barred him over the chest, seizing the stony firmness of his bicep.

“Trust me.” As much question as fact.

He nodded, though tension raced over him, muscles dancing as though stung. His teeth ground a little, the boiling warmth pulling back. “What… What is this?”

His elbow unlocked a moment later, the weight of his arm draped over his hip and hand falling into his lap. Warm hands pulled his fingers away from his cock and the digits spread, no longer trapped to grasp the girth of his phallus.

Imagining being stuck like that and trying to explain to Shuri. His cheeks flamed red and he hoped the gloom covered his expression. Not likely.

A plastic crackle replaced her words. Something cool and thick glazed his fingers, still a wonder how he detected the liquid settling into the channels and splattering onto his wrist, when so long the prosthetic had been inert.

“How much are you using?”

“Enough.”

Figured. He sighed and waited for her to finish painting his balls and sliding lower, guiding a fresh rivulet of lubricant past the line of his perineum. Lower…

The pad of her thumb drew feathery circles around his forbidden hole, the one immediately quaking at the touch. He clenched shut against her and she didn’t slow, rubbing him in lazy circles for the inevitable. More lube collected on the tight crenellations and she pushed the tip of her finger in, adding drops here and there. He tried to push her out with no real intent of denial, his fat cock so hard it pointed at his navel.

Something hard pressed up against his thigh, firm and wide enough to likely be her shoulder. He relented and arched up more, giving room for his little pucker to receive a proper anointing. Lube swirled around and slid in as the one insistent fingertip painted his ring liberally. Neither were his balls forgotten, tenderly cupped and smeared until he figured they must shine like glass.

All the while, he merely held his buttock for her, hardly daring to breathe. Too close to his peak, any extra sensation might be damning, and clearly Natasha held something in mind. His rough breathing sawed through his clenched teeth. She took her damn time all right, frosting his rim in a warm coating.

Then all that remained was waiting.

After counting to eighty in his head, feeling little but his own demanding erection and the tightness of his contracted hole, he dared to speak. “Are you going to…?”

“No," she said.

His breath locked up in his lungs and he stiffened. A tug on his metal arm pushed his fingers lower, away from the handhold on his clenched ass, to the star between. Even the faintest clench resounded against his finger, loud and firm as an earthquake, shot through the overloaded circuitry in his brain.  
  
Natasha tapped his grooved nail. “You are.”

A little pressure flirted with his dilating ring, spreading to take that metallic point as greedily as any toy. Unlike flesh he was almost frictionless, and the texture sliding up and down against the taut star stole his breath into broken staccato pitch. He tried to speak without choking on his tongue and she idly licked the leaking crown of his cock, her moan a vibration running straight down the length.

“Be good, Bucky. Use your fingers to stretch your hole.”

He about fainted, pushing the tip of his finger into velvety heat. Oh yes, he felt it as intimately as if he’d used his flesh hand. The unoccupied fingers curled into the bed and she reached over to push them away, her breasts dragging over his tight stomach. Pinned down, he could only oblige by rocking against her shoulder and burying his finger up to the second knuckle.

It felt so good. So damn full, one finger, squeezed and milked by his greedy hole. He bore down and felt the corresponding squeeze of the muscle around his unyielding finger. Nothing at all like the flesh one, of course. That had give, but this invasion refused to yield. He slid back and winced a little at the grooves teasing his burning nerves, then drove in faster.

“Yes.” She squeezed his wrist, undulating against him. The ball of his heel drove into the mattress for support, stabilizing him against her sway. Back, again. The clap of their bodies meeting rang through the hut. “Again. Do it again.”

Encouragement he hardly needed, really. The old familiar path of sliding his digit through his anal ring was easy, but not the fact the prosthetic in all its mystical technology relayed the impressions right to his head. Almost like using a flesh hand, and somehow a little better.

He shifted under her and tentatively pressed in circles, feeling the way his walls clung greedily to the digit. Soon enough another joined the first, amply lubricated and spreading out his hole in that bone melting way.

A moan extinguished into a curse, curling his tongue to he hard palate. In that she leaned over to kiss him, lips hard and mouth demanding. Two fingers drove deep and twisted, finding the walnut-sized cluster of nerves. He stroked at the spot as his hips spontaneously lifted, his unattended cock thickening, swaying for attention denied.

He tried to raise his pinned hand and she fought him. His fist rose to the bed and snapped back, then gained a few more inches. Their grappling was an act of grappling angels -- fallen, truly -- in the garden of Wakanda, and he never ceased to stroke his prostate at the same time. Copious amounts of precum spilled out to coat his metal fist, opalescent streaks on gold and black.

“Fuck,” he cried out into her mouth, and her tongue ravaged its confines, the tumbling blur of desperation and wanton need overtaking any rational sense.

His palm collided with his buttock, two fingers drilling his hole, her hands on him to keep him from reaching his cock. They kissed and tangled with one another, her body arching over his from the side like a storm settling on the plains.

Nothing prepared him for the ignition sequence that dissolved every sense when powerful motors pulsed to life. Systems online within the prosthetic radiated a purring vibration that flooded up to his shoulder and down into his scissoring fingers.

Before he could yank his wrist away in shock, an immovable force clamped around his arm and held it fast. Firm and inescapable, that had to be skin. Someone’s hand. _Not Nat. She’s not this strong._

Seconds later his thoughts tore into scraps like a toddler ripping into a present. The harmonics converged right on the hidden spot in his ass, humming alive, focused on the very heart of pleasure. Under the blindfold his eyes rolled back and he arched, insensate to the struggle for transcendence.

Without the three points of contact, he might have hit the ceiling. Natasha lay over his chest to pin his flesh arm down, his metallic wrist held flush against the cleft of his backside. He had no hope of evading his orgasm for all he sought to glide away from the inevitable.

He flexed his knee and ground his hips in circles, but the two digits hummed rapidly and his spread fingers pressed against his hole externally mirrored the high-frequency harmonics. At best he attained a slight oscillation around his prostate, rubbing here and there, and his incoherent cries built up on one another.

“Cum, Buck.”

It wasn’t Natasha between his legs. It was…

“ _Steve!_ ” His chest heaved in the last herculean effort to escape, and Natasha pressed her lips to his again. His teeth resonated to the forceful hum in his ass, carried up his arm, and leaving him in a wine dark sea of perfect lust. He could only feel, the recipient of their wicked propositions.

Steve turned the shivering prosthetic around, corkscrewing Bucky’s fingers in a salacious dance that set his gripping, quivering hole aflame. Twin epicenters overlapped the hard vibrations that escalated in speed and power, making him cry out incoherent to the night. His balls fit neatly against his palm, subjecting them to the same erotic, glorious torment as the thinned ring milking the vibranium.

Pressure building within found no escape but through the tightening of his balls, the rising flood of white cream seeking its way out. His cock absolutely ached, one last point forgotten.

He should have known better, had he thoughts not scattered into the astral dust. They never let him down. The warm, familiar weight of Steve’s fingers wrapped around his length, gliding up from the root to the tip, slow and languid so he fully appreciated his predicament. Muffled moans swallowed up met with her kiss, and he broke from their assault, reamed at one end and suckled at the other.

Wet ropes of cum needed to go somewhere, and the obvious answer was simple. Sucking, wet heat engulfed the tip of his shaft, chasing the retreating fist, going lower and lower. His world narrowed down to Steve’s mouth and the ocean of cum he wanted to pour into his best friend’s willing throat as offering, tribute, and thanks.

The kiss broke for a moment, a confession from spy to assassin offered. “He’s controlling your arm.” Steve bottomed out, his tip slamming into the back of that supple, hot throat. Bucky saw white, arching to push himself deeper, wrapped up in velvety tongue and bumping against the pliant throat muscles. Something centered; he tried to thrust.

Nat purred, “Love. We’re going to drain you tonight.”

Steve sucked in earnest and the black, perfect fingers released their pent-up energy in a charge that kicked right against the prostate. A careful amount, fine-tuned not to damage, but pummel in a strong bow wave. Bucky wailed and buried himself to the balls in Steve’s mouth, in his throat, and unleashed his load.

Gave up his fight, opened his soul. They both descended almost gently then, arms wrapped around him, lips reverent on him, vibranium gift of the gods setting him free into climactic bliss.

A kimoyo bead on Steve’s wrist dutifully displayed 1/12 in glowing violet digits.

It was going to be a long, messy night.


End file.
